


Undeniable

by scifiwritergirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifiwritergirl/pseuds/scifiwritergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Moriarty leaves Sherlock and John by the pool in "The Great Game", the men are forced to confront some of their most vulnerable and unspoken emotions. They can no longer deny the bond of their friendship, and they struggle to accept there could be more than friendship in their feelings. Rated "E" for a bedroom scene in Chapter 8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fear of Loss and The Great Game

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter was just meant to be a quick little recap of the ending to "The Great Game". The following chapters are my original work. Comments and feedback are encouraged!

The gun shook violently at his side. Sherlock paced. He could not let his nerves get the best of him, but he could not let his guard down either. Not even for an instant.

"I'm glad no one saw that."

"Hm?" the ever-apathetic detective turned, shaking with an nervousness that he'd never before felt.

"You... ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk," John smiled through his fear and shook his head.

"People do little else," the detective's voice trembled, but he managed a grin. It soothed him to hear John's jocular tone as if he hadn't just been in life threatening danger.

Mere moments ago, a bomb was strapped to Watson's chest, ready to detonate and stop his heart… yet here we was, still managing to make humour through the strife. Sherlock always assumed that the Army had trained John to be so strong and enduring, but here he was, laughing absentmindedly in the midst of danger. His strength wasn't conditioned; it was innate. He had seen pain, he had seen loss, yet still he understood that life went on, and his spirit could not be conquered. John was just grateful just to be alive. Sherlock was glad for it as well, but his best friend nearly died before his eyes. Sherlock could not shake off that horror so easily.

The detective stifled nervous laughter and smiled at his friend, blinking furiously to keep himself from shedding tears. Watson chuckled and looked up at Sherlock, smiling. The gun finally was still. No matter how many times he had denied it—Sherlock was his friend. The man was not some distant colleague, and he was no ordinary flatmate. John cared for Sherlock, and it was evidently mutual. At that vital moment, both men accepted this silent revelation. There would be no more pretending now. No more distance, no more callous denials of companionship. They were the dearest of friends, and they knew it could no longer be disputed.

"Sorry, boys! I'm _soooo_ changeable!" His voice cut through their hope like shards of glass. "It is a weakness with me. But to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." The man's voice echoed through the pool room and bounced off the walls, surrounding them. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you... but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

The sing-song threats of James Moriarty pierced through Sherlock's semblance composure. Sheer hatred blanketed his mind, unadulterated, enveloping his senses. Adrenaline rushed through every nerve. _No,_ he thought defiantly. He would not allow it to end this way. Sherlock had almost lost John, and Moriarty had the pleasure of watching the horror play out to his own twisted will. Sherlock would not give Jim the satisfaction of breaking him again.

Sherlock looked over to John, communicating wordlessly. His eyes were rekindled with fear, but he nodded in certain response—he trusted this detective with his life. Sherlock took a deep breath and swallowed his anxiety. He turned slowly and pointed his gun at his detested enemy. "Probably my answer has crossed yours," he said, keeping his voice level.

If he and John were going to die that day, they wouldn't be going alone. He lowered the gun inch by inch, heart pounding. Sherlock would not bluff. Moriarty would yield or burn with them in his own devised hell. He aimed his steady gun at the jacket of explosives. He wasn't afraid to die. He was only afraid to lose.

But he would not lose this game. Sherlock would never let himself lose John.


	2. Keeping Secrets and Childish Charades

The next moments raced by in a blur. A fright, a phone call, another departure of the antagonist… and miraculously their lives had been spared. In mere moments they had been in danger, safety, and danger again.  All was calm once more. Sherlock refused to trust it. They were left alone in the pool room, afraid and self-aware.

The detective's mind shrieked in panic as he looked around the room. The snipers' red dots had disappeared, but he didn't trust it. Minutes passed in which John sat in exhaustion and Sherlock searched restlessly to ensure that they were truly safe.

Once he felt confident they were alone, Sherlock lent Watson a hand and helped him to his feet. Both standing, they lingered a moment, hands interlocked between them. Sherlock looked into John's unassuming eyes with a smile and held his dear friend close. They had never hugged before, but now was as good a time as any.

Leaning gratefully into the embrace, John gathered his bearings. This day would live eternally in the mind of Dr. John H. Watson, like the day he begged for his life at gunpoint in Afghanistan. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso in unstable acclimation. Tears brimmed over the edges of the detective's eyes at the feeling of John's arms around him. His grasp felt…  _safe_. And they were both safe now.  He pulled away from John for a moment, ashamed of his weakness. He wiped the tears from his eyes and turned to leave in automatic self-defense, but turned back and embrace John once more; this time unabashed. John was alive. Nothing else mattered.

When Sherlock pulled back, he beamed at his friend, "Let's go home."

Together they walked. John's limp slightly returned, but the doctor tried to hide it from Sherlock's notice.  He didn't want to worry his flatmate, but the pain in his leg grew severe and he winced reflexively. Without a word, the detective wrapped an arm around him, supporting John's body with his own. Internally, Sherlock obsessed over the injured leg, but was careful not to let his concern show. He wished so desperately that he had John's cane. It pained him to see his flatmate's limp return. It was his fault. He wanted to fix it--to make it all okay again--but he couldn't think of how to help.

For a while, they walked in subtly fractured silence. Only the sound of shoes on the pavement and the occassional wince of the damaged army doctor. Sherlock knew that John had grown weary, and wished desperately to happen across a taxi. In the cab's absense, he was forced to improvise.

"I'm starving." he declared. It was nearly 3 in the morning by this time. He hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours, so he reasoned that the excuse was viable. "Shall we?" he proposed as they approached a café. He did not wait for an answer, and pulled John into the nearest doorway, eager to give John's leg a rest.

John's eyes responded slowly to the interior lights of the diner. He blinked and winced as Sherlock eased him into the nearest chair.

"Can I help you?" a mousy waitress peeked out from behind the counter.

Sherlock rattled off a lengthy and painfully specific order to the wide-eyed waitress. She blinked stupidly, and Sherlock made the poor besieged bird recite it back to him. He corrected her four times on miniscule details before letting her look skittishly over at John.

"Just toast and acoffee for me, thanks," he nodded courteously. She scurried away and he eyed Sherlock suspiciously. "Since when did you become so picky?"

"What?"

"And that order... you'll hardly eat a fraction of that."

"I'm hungry," Sherlock said with finality. "Anyway, how are you feeling?" In truth, Sherlock wasn't hungry in the slightest; his stomach was far too churned by the night's events. The order was merely a means of buying time before letting John embark out again on his bad leg.

"I'm alright," he lied indolently. "Waitress seems a bit flighty, though." 

"Hm? Oh. Her father was abusive and grown men terrify her. She probably should have gotten a different job with nerves like that." In the backround they heard a brief shatter and a muffled curse from their waitress. Sherlock rearranged his silverware with a vacant expression.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Hm, yes, why wouldn't I be?"

"Well… for starters, I could have been blown up today."

"But you weren't."

"But I could have been," he paused. "It's okay if you were scared."

"Oh, don't be stupid. I was not."

"Oh, but you were."

Sherlock ignored him.

"And you hugged me! I'm sure you're about to deny that as well?" John sighed in frustration.

"No," Sherlock kept his eyes on the place setting and smiled knowingly. "I recall that quite clearly."

For a silent moment, John watched Sherlock smile to himself. When the detective finally looked up from his place setting, his expression was light. For a moment, John thought about how much he liked this side of Sherlock. Sometimes he dropped the stoically detatched charade and became playful, rambunctious, nearly childlike. It was an amazing transformation. The entire room brightened up just a bit when his detective was in this childish mood. This side of Sherlock was friendly, perhaps even endearing, and his eyes gleamed so brilliantly when he looked up at his dear Watson. Yes, John admitted to himself, he truly loved the playful energy festering behind Sherlock's eyes.

"So…" inquired John teasingly, "Is it just me, or does Moriarty seem to have a crush on you?"

Oh, my, how could he not? I am a pretty hard man to resist, John. It must be my cheekbones! Or perhaps it's my height."

"Or those gorgeous curls!"

"My uncanny intellect!"

"Certainly not your modesty!"

"No, not a chance," Sherlock grinned at their meaningless banter.

John shook his head, laughing while Sherlock pretended to admire himself in the reflection of his spoon.

"Dashing as ever!" he proclaimed, primping in his undoubtedly handsome reflection.

"Alright, then. I think you've made your point."

"Oh, nonsense, John! You know my narcissism well enough by now!"

John smiled uncertainly. Yes, he loved this Sherlock, but the demeanor he now expressed was so.. _uncharacteristic_. John's eyebrows furrowed, and he began to feel nervous for his friend. "Sherlock, what's gotten into you today?"

"Tonight," the detective corrected smugly. "Wait... it's early morning. Damn, it is 'today,' then. How could I mess that up?" A beat. "Oh, and to answer your question... I haven't the slightest idea," he shrugged and flashed John an infuriatingly innocent smile. John was tempted to drop the subject, but something in the detective's eyes betrayed his emotions.  Something was wrong, John knew it, but he didn't know what.


	3. Forced to Face the Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to comment! I need all the advice and encouragement I can get :)

Sherlock and Watson began their trek home once again. John's mind was so full of uncertainty. Something was amiss with Sherlock, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was.

"Can we talk about today?"

"Alright. What about it?"

"I don't know. Anything."

Sherlock looked up at the dark sky in deep thought. "My eggs were runny."

"Your… eggs? I almost died, and you want to talk about your rotten café eggs?" John's face flushed in frustration.

"You said anything."

"Well, anything but your sodding eggs!" John shouted. Just once, _once_ , John wanted to get a straight answer out of that man. He was fed up with being blindly dragged around by Sherlock's secrets and unspoken agendas.

"Care to narrow that subject down, or is 'anything but eggs' a brief enough spectrum for you?" Holmes smiled.

"Today, Sherlock! At the pool. Moriarty? _Me?!_   Anything!"

"Don't get your pants in a bunch, John. I have nothing to say on the matter."

"There was a bomb strapped to my chest and snipers were aimed at our hearts! We could be dead right now! Is that not conversation worthy to you?"

Sherlock was silent as he dropped his arm from around John. They had nearly reached their flat on Baker Street.

"Does that mean nothing to you?" John cried out, desperate for answers.

"Enlighten me!" Sherlock's voice exploded on the darkened street. "Please, John, I beg of you. Tell me why I would want to discuss the bomb that was strapped to the chest of the only person I care about. Why would I even want to _remember_ that the only friend I've ever had was nearly blown to pieces before my eyes?! There's no point in chatting about it! You are alive, _not_ dead! Why must you insist on bringing it up?" He shoved his key into the door of 221 and stormed inside.

"Oh, I don't know! Because I was scared, Sherlock! Because I'm thankful that I'm alive!" John shouted, following him up the stairs to flat B.

In a rage, Sherlock turned to face Watson, eyes blazing. He loomed over his shorter companion and gripping the railing tight as he leaned forwrad. Face inches away, Sherlock glared into the eyes of the man he'd endangered. "And you think I'm not?" he whispered bitterly. He pronounced each syllable showly, emphasizing the their distaste against his tongue. His knuckles turned white from gripping so hard.

His accusation was followed  by a haunting silence, piercingly cold in contrast with their shouting match. John's skin rippled with bumbs and his expression softened. He'd never seen Sherlock so avid, so passionately offended…. H had always been so cold and distant. Now, he stood vehemently before John with bloodshot eyes and a face expressing the unspoken pain he'd been fighting hard to hold back.

"I nearly lost the only person I care about." Sherlock's voice was stern but his face had suddenly softened. "If there's one thing I shouldn't have to prove, John, it's that you are the only person I have ever dared to love, and losing you would have killed me." The detective's ever comprehending eyes bore into John's. He searched resolutely for a response, but found no consolation. In a flood, Sherlock suddenly felt himself vulnerable and exposed. He searched his mind for a time when he expressed love for someone other than John--Mycroft, his mother, anyone--but failed to recall. He was the great Sherlock Holmes, married to his work, prizing nothing but his intellect and a demanding puzzle. Now here was John, a distraction, a retired army doctor with nerves of steel and unfaltering loyalty. John was the only person who had ever truly trusted him. To Sherlock, John was everything: a friend, a colleague… and undoubtedly something more.

No, he decided. He could not leave himself so vulnerable. He turned, leaving John on the stairs, and stormed into 221B without another word.


	4. Faulted Emotions

Sherlock remained locked in his room for hours, playing a lament on his worn violin. He pondered medatatively as his bow slid across the strings, filling the room with the low sounds of a soothing melody.

Had John any capacity for sleep, the violin would have kept him awake for hours, but he had no ability nor desire for sleep. Instead, the doctor laid in his bed, wondering what could possibly be going on in his flatmate's machine-like mind. John's stomach fluttered, but he assured himself that it was only nerves from the bomb. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, his mind ran in circles.  _'He gets off on it,'_ Sally Donovan whispered in the back of his mind. But  _did_ Sherlock get off on such horrid thrills? He certainly hated the puzzle when it began to put John's life in danger.  _'Losing you would have killed me,'_ Sherlock had whispered. Yet, in John's uncertainty, Mycroft still echoed, _'He does_ love _to be dramatic.'_   John searched hard, but couldn't find the line that separated drama from the truth.

After a while, the playing stopped. John listened intently as Sherlock's footsteps traveled to the study. Mentally occupied, he began to shuffle about the papers on his desk. Assuming that Sherlock was back to thinking about a case, John entered the room. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Five twenty-three," Sherlock mumbled without looking up. He didn't appear to be doing anything productive, just moving his documents and police reports round fretfully. John stood expectantly in the doorway, trying to analyze his peculiar flatmate. _How would Sherlock see this situation?_ He tried to place himself in Sherlocks shoes, a brilliant detective watching the patterns of a mysterious madman. Although the latter part of the description wasn't far from the truth, John found himself at an analytic loss. However, he made it clear that he had no intention of leaving. Upon realizing this fact, the pale detective paused and let out a sigh.

John wanted answers. After all that Sherlock had put the man through, he knew John deserved the truth. Sherlock fought to swallow his pride as he lowered himself onto the sofa. This wouldn't be easy, but he owed John an explanation. He placed his palms together and rested his fingers against his lips in concentration. Finally, his eyes closed and he leaned back in defeated resignation. He had no option. He had to do this. "I'm sorry, John," he uttered.

John was taken aback. "For what?"

The detective looked up at his friend, wondering why the unbreakable man stayed through all the grief that Sherlock had caused. Sherlock didn't deserve it. Sherlock's presence in John's life was nothing but a burden, yet the man refused to give up on him. "Do you still want me to talk about last night?"

"Alright. Yeah," John replied, not entirely sure if he was prepared for the upcoming testimony.

Sherlock groaned in self-depreciation. "It's my fault.... All of it. The Black Lotus abduction and now Moriarty…. Don't you see that I'm the only reason you're in danger? The Black Lotus thought you were me and tried to torture information out of you. Now Moriarty has kidnapped you to get to me _,_ and he's still _out_ there. I have no doubt that he'll be back. And next time it will be worse _._  He doesn't give up easy." He cleared his throat, trying to hold the stable composure he had so long faked for appearance's sake. "If he were to hurt you, it would be my fault.... My fault entirely. I know it, John. I know I am a danger to you. As long as I'm around, you won't be safe. Before--earlier--I mentioned that I care about you. It wasn't a lie. I do care about you John, and I loathe myself with incredible intensity for letting anyone hurt you."

John listened in silent awe as Sherlock confessed his detestation and regret. The detective began to break semblance and concluded his sorrows with a mournful enquery. "What's happened to me, John? I was always so strong, so impervious. I could endure anything without regret or second thought. Now look at me… _weak_. What has become of me, John?"

John leaned against the fireplace mantle and stared at the floor. "I could be mistaken, but I think it's called feeling."

"I despise it."

"I noticed that," John mumbled unconsciously. However, when he looked up and his eyes met Sherlock's face, John's heart softened sympathetically. He sighed, "You shouldn't despise it. Everyone has feelings. It's normal... healthy. Not always enjoyable, but it's human and that's what makes us tick." He sat on the ground next to Sherlock, his back against the sofa. For a short time both men were silent, no doubt thinking the same thoughts.

Sherlock reached down from the couch and placed his hand on his dear Watsons's shoulder. "John," he said softly, making eye contact, "I'm thankful that you're safe."

John's blue eyes twinkled, and he covered Sherlock's hand with his own. "Me too, Sherlock. Me too."


End file.
